


Use Your Words

by RooBadley



Series: Rhythm, Meter, Structure [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cussing, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Hope for the future, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Fiona Pitch, POV Penelope Bunce, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Poetry, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Sarcasm, Simon Snow Goes Off, Simon Snow is a poet, Suit Shopping, Therapy is Great, well adjusted adults, well...adjusted adults?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooBadley/pseuds/RooBadley
Summary: First Simon realized therapy could be a weapon to fight back the dark creatures within. Here he learns he can use his words as a weapon.Simon’s first collection of poetry is due to be published and the Coven want editing rights. Baz and Simon prepare to go to war, just not in the way they’d ever expected at Watford. Simon's had some time to process the events of his childhood and he has a couple things to say to the Coven about his time at at school and what they let the Mage do to him. You ever wish Simon had told the Coven off? Yeah. This is that. Give 'em hell, Simon.Poetry, domestic fluff, betrayals (and inevitable make-ups) of friendship, and suit shopping ensue. My dudes are Well! Adjusted! Adults! and are standing up for themselves.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Rhythm, Meter, Structure [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977055
Comments: 57
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 6-ish years into the future of the world of my fic Not an Idiot (read that one first because it's much better written than this, but also there is a TL;DR for Not an Idiot below). 
> 
> TL;DR version of Not an Idiot: Simon stays in therapy and it helps him process his trauma. As part of therapy he starts writing poetry because it helps him process his trauma. He finds he loves books and words and consumes them voraciously. Simon figures out Baz can retract his fangs when he eats. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts (actually lots of stuff still hurts, but he’s better able to cope with it).
> 
> This fic will be 3 solid, long chapters and a fourth shorter Epilogue-y style chapter at the end. Updating every 2 days or so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Huh, funny how we always thought we’d be fighting against one another for the soul of the Coven. Turns out we’re fighting against the Coven for the sake of our souls,” Simon snorts at the joke of it all. 

**Baz**

I’m ten minutes deep in my second call with a Coven member today. It's my fifth so far this week and it’s only Tuesday. At some point I’m going to stop answering my phone.

Simon’s first book of poetry is set to be published and the Coven are absolutely having kittens over it. They’re demanding not only to review it, but also have editing rights over anything they don’t approve of.

This time it’s Philip Stainton who called to give me hell. Polite, restrained, genteel hell. I think the Coven sent him in with the intention of playing to my guilt over Philippa’s voice. She’s fine now, her voice has come back. I have no guilt. (I have some guilt.)

“Look, Stainton, we have to follow the established precedent in this situation and I know for a fact Mitali Bunce has never had any of her books reviewed or edited by the Coven.” 

“Mitali Bunce is a different situation entirely. She didn’t drain half of England of it’s magic. She’s also still a mage, so we know where her allegiances lie,” Allegiances? I’m half tempted to try and cast a **_momma said knock you out_ ** over the phone on the off chance it’ll knock him senseless and save me from this ridiculous conversation. 

“This is ludicrous. You know where _my_ allegiances lie and I’ve seen the book. My approval should suffice. There’s nothing in it to concern the Coven.”

“It’s just a precautionary measure,” Stainton reassures me, trying to sound calm and charming, but his voice is oily.

“A precaution for what, exactly?” I counter. 

“To ensure Mr Snow isn’t publishing anything that could put us in jeopardy. Surely you can appreciate that, Basilton. As a member of a well respected Old Family, surely you can see how it would be problematic if things were to...get out, as it were.”

“The only problematic thing I see is the negligence in oversight of a Coven that allowed a psychopath Mage to manipulate and endanger Simon Snow’s life for 8 years. The only problematic thing was the months long trial and house arrest the Coven placed Simon under during that ridiculous trial. What’s problematic is how many of you idiots refuse to trust or believe him even after the trial cleared his name! _That’s_ fucking problematic, not a book of poetry, _you berk_ ,” I ring off the call and in that moment I wish for the catharsis of a landline phone to slam down. Emphatically tapping a screen lacks the proper drama and release I require right now.

Next time I could just crush my smartphone. I can afford to replace it. 

I sit down on the sofa and hang my head in my hands. 

What an ordeal. This fucking book better be worth it. 

What am I saying?! Of course it’s worth it. I’ve never seen Simon so happy. Or so nervous. I finally found that weakness of his I’d been searching for all through our time at Watford. Turns out the best way to defeat Simon Snow isn’t monsters, hunger, or neglect. It’s by letting him hope and dream, then giving him exactly what he longed for. It’s happiness. That’s his weakness: a happy, contented life. His childhood simply didn’t prepare him for it.

I hear Simon shuffling up the stairs to our flat, his footsteps heavy and slow. I hear him having a one sided conversation and his voice sounds defeated. Crowley, I told him not to answer his phone unless it was a number he knew! I’ve been playing Human Shield to Simon for the last 72 hours but it only works as long as the sweet, trusting fool doesn’t answer his damn phone. 

“I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t think you’re trying to hear _me_ ,” Simon says, his voice low and serious. He’s unlocking the door now and I straighten up so he won’t see how defeated I look. 

“Yes. Yes. ...again, I hear what you’re saying,” Simon nods his hello at me and offers a sad half smile. I stride over to him in three steps and take the phone from his hand. 

“Stainton, what in Crowley’s name did you not understand about me hanging up on you?” I growl into the phone. I’m so over the Coven. Done. 

“...it’s not Stainton,” a familiar voice comes down the line at me. Penelope Bunce’s voice.

“...Bunce?” I offer weakly, because if she’s against us too then all hope is probably lost. 

“Basilton,” she says. Her voice sounds deeply sad. I’m unused to this version of her. I squeeze Simon’s shoulder and mouth the words “go make some tea” to him before shutting myself in our shared office and locking the door. Penny holds the line silently the entire time.

“So you’re against us too, then?” my voice is hard and tight. I barely recognize it. 

“I’m not against you, Basil. I’m with you, I just think you should consider the Coven’s request,” Penny sighs.

“You do realize, Bunce, that you’ve made Simon look and sound like a kicked puppy. Was that your intention? To wrench the heart out of your best friend?” I seethe at her. I can barely contain my rage. 

“Basil. We have to protect the World of Mages from Normals. No matter the cost.” 

“Funny. I don’t remember that line in your wedding vows to that ridiculous American,” I spit back. 

“Leave Shepard out of this, Baz.” 

“Gladly. When you do the right thing by Simon.” 

“This _is_ the right thing, Baz. You know, my mother says-” I cut her off. 

“You’re 26 years old, Bunce. When will you stop hiding behind your mother like a child?” Then I hang up on someone for the second time in less than ten minutes. Fuck my life. 

Penny immediately rings back. I ignore her call and turn Simon’s phone off, then my own, before hiding them in the top drawer of my desk. I’ll be damned if we won’t get a night's peace. 

I join Simon in the kitchen where the kettle is bubbling. He’s leaning heavily on the counter, both hands gripping it tightly. He looks exhausted. 

I slide up behind him. His wings are spelled away, he can do that for himself now. Simon’s magic came back, at least some of it. It’s not what it was before, thank fuck. He’s still a powerhouse, though. He’s still able to bend the world to his wishes, but this time it doesn’t come with the cloying smell of greenwood smoke and the holes in the magickal atmosphere.

His magic smells of burning hardwoods now. Like oak and elm. It’s deep and heady, like something sturdy and stable and long-lasting. 

We didn’t tell anyone about Simon’s magic. Once it started to come back we figured it would be better to keep it among ourselves. Too dangerous to let the Coven know. They’d probably snap his wand and lock him up in a tower to monitor his every move. Bunce and I are the only two people who know about it. And Shepard, I suppose. It's what makes her turning against us all the more difficult. 

I wrap my arms around Simon’s waist and drape my body over his, melting into him. His back rises and falls against my chest with great heaving breaths. I press my face into his neck.

“Penny-” he starts to say, before his voice catches. I feel him pull two deep, wracking breaths before he continues quietly. So quietly. “I just thought...I guess I figured...not Penny.” 

“I know, love. I know,” I speak my words into the nape of his neck, kissing as I go. “It’s a betrayal.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Baz,” Simon grunts, pushing himself off the countertop and away from me. He pulls milk from the refrigerator for our tea. 

“It’s not melodramatic, Simon, it’s the truth. You’re allowed to feel betrayed. Bunce should have been a better friend.”

“I can handle it from the Coven. This kind of fuckery makes sense from them, but Penny? _Penny_?!” he’s shouting now and slams the refrigerator door closed. 

“Easy, love. That fridge never did anything to you,” I love our refrigerator, which I know is a ridiculous thing to love. It’s gorgeous. It’s retro in style and classic British Racing Green. Simon and I picked it out and bought it together when we moved into this flat three years ago. It was a ridiculous luxury purchase, but I wanted it so badly. I might not take much with us when we eventually move from here to a house, but I will definitely take the refrigerator. 

Unless Simon breaks it first. 

“Why can’t they leave me alone to write my shitty little poems? Why does the Coven have to ruin everything?”

“First, your poems are not shitty. Second, this is standard operating procedure for the Coven, Simon. When have they _not_ ruined everything?” I finish making our tea while Simon frets and huffs, arms crossed. I hand him a package of chocolate covered digestives. “Here, eat these.”

“All of them? Don’t think I won’t, Baz,” Simon looks at me intensely and rips into the package. He stuffs two in his mouth at once. Feeding Simon Snow is my love language. Thus, the nice refrigerator.

“Simon, after the way our week is going you can consume an entire stick of butter if it’ll make you feel better. Devour whatever you want,” I sip my tea. Simon swallows, still a showy affair, before raising his eyebrows at me. 

“I can devour _whatever_ I want?” He practically snarls. Oh. I set my tea down on the counter and push it clear of the impact zone. This could get messy. 

“You heard me, Snow. _Devour whatever you want_ ,” I undo the top button of my shirt and Simon is on me before I can get much more accomplished. He’s all teeth, tongue and grabbing hands. This is less of an erotic gropefest and more of a cathartic one. 

His teeth are biting at my earlobe as I frantically undo the top button of his jeans. He has me pressed against the countertop and it’s digging into my lower back. It hurts and I don’t mind a bit.

“Do you-- _unnf_ ,” he’s dug his fingers into my hair, pulling my head roughly to the side so he can suck and bite along my neck. “Do you want to try and make it to the bedroom, Snow?”

He grabs my hips roughly and grinds up against me. 

“I don’t give a fuck,” Simon growls against my throat before biting down on my collarbone. His voice is low and thick with want. 

I know I’m going to ruin this with what I say next. I just know it, but I have to say it anyway. Because I love him and there’s something about this that isn’t sitting quite right with me, no matter how good it feels. 

“Simon...love, I don’t want-I don’t want you to be rough because you feel like you need to be punished for something. For whatever sins the Coven thinks you’re committing,” his grip loosens and he shuffles his body away from my mine. 

I was right. I ruined it. 

He sighs. “Baz...I don’t want to punish _you_.”

My shirt is unbuttoned and Simon’s jeans are splayed open at the fly. What a ridiculous pair we must be, rumpled and half-debauched in our kitchen. 

Simon takes a step back and starts to do up the buttons of my shirt while I smooth my hair. Then I zip and fasten his jeans. 

Then we both stand on either side of the kitchen and sip our tea like gentlemen. 

“So, what should we do?” Simon asks between sips. 

“Well, I think we should finish our tea and you should eat about five more of those biscuits. Then we should lock ourselves in the bedroom for the next few hours to finish whatever we started here, but on a comfortable bed and in a way that doesn’t feel like we’re self-flagellating,” Simon raises his eyebrows in question. “It means hurting ourselves as punishment for something wrong we’ve done,” I explain. 

“Oh. Good. Because I thought the whole point of living with your boyfriend was that you wouldn’t have to self-flagellate. There’d always be someone there to do it for you,” he’s laughing now, snorting into his tea. 

I roll my eyes at him. Someday, perhaps, our libidos will slow. Someday we’ll stop being a crash of mouths and hands and other assorted body parts. So far, however, it only seems to be getting worse by the year. Month. Day. 

“You know that’s not what I meant when I asked what we should do. I meant about the Coven and my book,” Simon sighs. 

“Ultimately it’s up to you, love. Just know I’ll fight beside you as long as you want me to,” I say, giving Simon an encouraging look. 

“Huh, funny how we always thought we’d be fighting against one another for the soul of the Coven. Turns out we’re fighting against the Coven for the sake of our souls,” Simon snorts at the joke of it all. 

“It’s a righteous fight and there’s no one I’d rather stand beside in battle than you. I’ve never known you to lose.”

“Pfft, I’m always losing,” he huffs. 

“Lies. You’re still the hero of this story, Simon, even if you’re too stupid to believe it,” I finish my tea and gesture for him to come to me. He crosses the kitchen and I pull his back to my front, holding him tightly, arms crossed across his chest. I whisper into his ear. “I will fight to the death for you, Simon Snow. You’re the hero. You saved the world. You saved me. Let me fight beside you, at least until you’re ready to stop fighting. Then I’ll gladly lay down my sword and surrender.”

“Crowley, Baz, way to overwork a metaphor,” Simon looks up at me from over his shoulder, smirking and rolling his eyes. Sometimes I curse his literature course. 

I kiss his ear. “It was poetic and you liked it,” I say. He sighs against me.

“I did,” he takes his last sip of tea and shoves his mug across the counter before turning and laying his body flush against mine. “Now what was that last bit you said again? Something about laying down and surrendering?” He rolls his hips against mine. 

“Come to the bedroom and I’ll show you.”

**Penny**

“I’m an idiot,” I say, realizing Baz is ignoring my phone calls. He must have turned off both his and Simon’s phones. 

“Babe, you’re not an idiot,” Shepard calls from the couch where he’s playing some ridiculous video game. He dies on screen and turns to look at me. “What’s up?” 

I sit beside him on the couch. I'm not a crier, but I can feel my eyes itching with heat. 

“I think I’ve ruined things with my best friends and I’m clueless about how to make it right.” 

“Boombox outside the window. Gotta blast some Peter Gabriel and fix it,” Shepard says earnestly. He’s making no fucking sense. 

“What in the name of Grace Slick does _that_ mean?!” 

“ _Say Anything_?” He says, as if it has some meaning to me. “Lloyd Dobler?! It’s, like, a classic 80’s movie and one of the most famous romantic moments in cinematic history!” He’s incredulous. I’m still lost. 

“No clue. Never heard of it. Must not be very good.”

“Uh, no, it’s great, and furthermore, I’m constantly surprised that for a system of magic that relies so heavily on common phrases and idioms you don’t have a better grasp of significant pop culture moments,” Shepard says, smiling. I will not be bullied by a magicless American. Not even one as cute as my husband. 

“Look, just add it to the blasted Netflix queue and help me figure out how to fix this thing with Simon and Baz,” before I’m even done speaking Shepard is thumbing into Netflix on his phone. 

“Oh, it’s added,” he smiles, putting his phone aside to take both my hands in his. “Now, tell me how you messed up and I’ll help you fix it.” 

“I want Simon to give the Coven his book to preview before he has it published,” I say. Shepard lets out a long low whistle and drops my hands.

“Nope. Changed my mind. I want no part of this,” he says getting up from the couch and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. 

“Shep, please,” I tug on his arm and he sits back down.

“You know how I feel about the Coven, Penny.”

“Yes, you think it’s both fascinating and horrifying in equal measures.” 

“Don’t think I’ve said ‘equal measures’, cuz they’re definitely more horrifying than fascinating. If they didn’t operate so much like a shady cabal of magical fascists I’d respect them a little more, but things being what they are…” Shepard’s voice trails off and he stares at me meaningfully over his glasses. They did put us through some hassles when we wanted to get married. It all worked out in the end though. I don’t know what he’s so upset about. 

Anyway, he can’t remember half of what they put us through. They spelled his memory clean afterwards. 

Actually, maybe Shepard’s on to something. The Coven is a bit horrifying.

**Simon**

I’ll be damned if I let them edit my book. My poems are between me, Baz, and my editor. Also the 70 or so people who regularly come out to poetry night at the bookstore where I read. And anyone who bought those literary journals I was published in. And my twitter followers (over 9,000 now, which is surreal). Also everyone who tuned into that BBC Radio 4 program I was featured on. So really this is to say, they’ve had ample opportunity to hear my poems if they wanted to. They don’t want to. This is just a control thing.

So I will be damned if I let the Coven control this. They can read my poems when they pry them from my cold dead hands. Or when they pay £10.99 for the book like everyone else. 

I guess it wouldn’t be such a big deal if I hadn’t named the collection what I did. _Insidious_. Guess that cuts a little close to the Insidious Humdrum. But the World of Mages doesn’t hold exclusive copyright to the word Insidious. (I know, I checked.) And it’s not like the poems I write give away all their secrets. I guess they’re expecting to crack open the book and read:

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_I have magical powers,_

_And the following people do too…_

I guess I could just change the title. My publisher would like that. They’ve never been terribly keen on _Insidious_ anyway. They say it “doesn’t tonally match the emotional fervor of the content within.” 

Right. I’m pretty sure I wrote the poems, which means the “emotional fervor of the content within” is whatever the fuck I say it is. 

I’m deflecting. 

I should just change the name. Maybe that’ll appease them. 

“Baz,” I say, nudging him in the arm. I’m sitting up in bed stewing and he’s passed out face first on the pillow beside me. I guess he would be tired, he really put in the work trying to distract me from my pity party. He’s a good man. 

“Baz, I think I want to change the name of my book,” I say, nudging him in the arm again. “Wake up, I want your advice.”

“My advice is to stop sticking your exceptionally boney elbow into me and let me sleep.” 

“No, Baz, I need your help. I’m serious about this. I think I should rename the book. I think it’ll get the Coven off our backs,” I say. I put my hand on his cold arm and give him a gentle shake. He finally moves, ever so slightly, shifting his head to look up at me. 

“What about the title _I Should Let My Boyfriend Sleep_?” Baz grumbles, closing his eyes again. 

“Meh, that lacks nuance. What about _Nightmare_?” I offer. Baz finally rouses himself. I guess he can tell he’s not going to be able to escape this conversation. He sits up beside me, leaning against the headboard. 

“Alright, Snow, why _Nightmare_?” he yawns. 

“Cuz you always call me a nightmare. It’s, like, your pet name for me,” I answer. He smiles and sinks down to rest his head on my shoulder. I pull him closer. 

“Your titles all seem perverse and macabre, Snow. Something you need to tell me?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure, Baz,” I say sarcastically. “So to start with, I killed my father figure at the tender age of 18. I live with my vampire boyfriend and we have a fridge full of assorted containers of blood. Oh! And! I have dragon wings and a _cartoon devil tail_ that reappear every morning even when I’ve spelled them away the night before. Everything about my life is perverse and macabre,” I say. Baz laughs. 

“I know you hate me saying it, but I agree with your publisher. I think your book deserves a title that suits the poems inside. Some might be macabre, sure, but they shine through with hope and promise. I think you need a title that conveys that,” Baz nuzzles against my shoulder when he’s done speaking. 

“Alright. Let’s just call it _Hope_ then,” I shrug. 

“Sometimes I find it difficult to believe you’re a writer. _Hope_? Really, Snow?”

“What about _Lost and Found_?” I suggest.

“Like your magic? It might be a little suggestive for the Coven. Especially if you want to keep the magic thing a secret.”

“Fair point. What about _Lost Boy_?” I ask. 

“Like from _Peter Pan_?” Baz questions. He has an eyebrow raised at me, as always. He might as well raise it when he wakes up in the morning and not put it back down again until he goes to sleep.

“Not like Peter Pan. Although...huh...now that you mention it I guess there are some similarities. The orphan thing. The flying. I can’t remember, did Peter Pan have freckles? Would that make you Tinkerbell or is that Penny? Or Shep?” Baz laughs as I talk. It’s good to hear him laugh. The last few days have been stressful. 

“I nix _Lost Boy_. Anyway. It’s still too morose. How about _Chosen One_?” Baz suggests. Clearly we’ve devolved to the ridiculous. 

“Too egotistical,” I counter. “What about _Sour Cherry Scones_?”

“You can’t name it after the one thing you love more than me.”

“I don’t love anything more than you, Baz,” I say. He places a kiss softly and gently on my shoulder, before biting down and sucking a mark onto me. I yelp.

“Prove it,” Baz says, sliding back down against the pillows and staring up at me suggestively. It’s a challenge I can handle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The books gets named, a letter arrives, and suit shopping happens. #battlearmour

**Baz**

Simon wakes me with a rough kiss to the cheek and a mug of coffee under my nose. 

“I’ve settled on a title, Baz,” he practically chirps. He’s still such an embarrassment of a morning person. You’d think as a creative type he’d embrace the louche lifestyle to stay up late scribbling and sleep in late the next morning. But no. He’s up early. Every morning. Without fail. 

“Come on, Baz. Wake up. I made your coffee the way you like.”

“Thanks, Snow,” I mumble, sitting up and taking the mug from him. The heat feels good in my hands. The heat doubles once my blurry eyes focus on Simon. He hasn’t spelled his wings away yet and he’s only wearing boxers. He knows what that does to me.

I sit up a little taller in bed. There is so much tawny skin on display. So many freckles. Everything is warm. The warmth of the mug in my hands, the warmth building in my gut, the warm browns and reds of Simon. 

He clears his throat and I snap back to attention.

“I said, I figured out the name for my book,” he’s practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Mmm, what’s that, Snow?” My voice is thick with sleep. 

“ _Use Your Words_.”

I hum in acknowledgement. It’s a good title. It fits. And from what he’s told me about that particular phrase in his life, it’ll be a cathartic title to publish under.

“D’ya like it?” He asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing my thigh through the covers in a very distracting way. His tail is poking up under the covers and wrapping around my ankle.

“Your opinion is all that matters, Simon. But yeah, I like it,” he continues to rub up and down my leg. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to work me up and I welcome it. I take a long sip of coffee and let my legs fall apart. Simon beams at me and I have to move quickly to get the coffee safely away from us before he manages to make me spill it all over our bed.

* * *

By the time we turn our phones back on, our voicemail boxes are full. Between increasingly frantic apology calls from Bunce, Shepard’s awkward “Heeeey guys, just checking in,” messages, and the inevitable persuasive efforts of various Coven members, they've maxed us both out. I suppose that’s a small blessing. 

Simon and I have turned listening to their messages into a game. We’ve put both our phones on the table between us set to speakerphone. We’re guessing who the message will be from, pressing play, and then seeing who can hit delete faster. 

“I think it’ll be that gangly fellow on the Coven who always wears the waistcoats that are too tight,” Simon says, leaning forward over his chair.

“Fernsby?” 

“Yeah, fucking Fernsby,” he says, nodding knowingly. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips and I’ll play this game all day if it keeps him in smiles. 

“I think it’ll be Shepard. Furthermore, I bet you a shared shower that he tries to be chummy and awkwardly calls us _mates_ in his message,” I offer. Simon’s smile spreads even further. 

“Wait…so if you’re right we take a shower together, and if I’m right...what?”

“I’ll cook you dinner for a week. It’s a win-win situation, Snow,” I pause with my finger over the button to play the next message. 

“Deal. Play it.”

“ _Hey Simon and Baz...this is Shep..._ ” Simon starts laughing immediately. 

“No fucking way, how did you know?” he snorts out. 

“Shh...hushup, Snow. We’ve a serious wager on the line,” I glare at him melodramatically and lean in closer to listen. 

“ _...look, we’re mates, aren’t we…_ ” Simon is off and running towards the bath before I’ve even hit delete on the message. Win-win situation. 

Especially when you snuck a look at who the call was from before you made the wager. 

**Simon**

My publisher and editor are excited when I let them know I’m ready to change the name of my book. They’re practically salivating when I offer up the new title. 

“We’ll get it to the designers working on the cover and send you some mock-ups, Simon,” they say. 

These are the kinds of conversations I have now. Mock-ups. Designers. Cover art. 

What is my life?

“This won’t throw off our publication schedule, will it?” I ask. 

“No, we’re fine. We’ll hit all our expected deadlines, Simon. Don’t worry about that. We’ll email with the new cover design soon.”

"Did you get my final dedication page?" I ask, timidly.

"We did, thanks for sending that along. Remind me to ask you about it at some point, too. There must be a story there," my editor laughs down the phone at me. 

We say our goodbyes and almost immediately my phone is ringing again. It’s Penny. Guess I’ve put this off long enough. 

  
  


**Penny**

He answers. He actually answers. It catches me so off guard that I completely lose my rehearsed and preplanned statement I was going to leave on his voicemail. 

“Penny, I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there.” 

“Si-Simon. Thanks for answering,” I finally get him on the phone and that’s all I can come up with? Pathetic. Do better, Penelope. 

“What is it, Penny?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“Then apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Simon, I shouldn’t have tried to convince you to take your book to the Coven. It was wrong of me and I’m sorry,” Shepard is orbiting around me, trying to figure out how it’s going. I try to wave him off.

“You only did it because you love magic so much. I can’t blame you. I love it, too, even if the Coven doesn’t believe me. Or you.”

He breaks my heart. “Oh, Simon. I know you love magic. I know you do.”

“Then trust me to protect it, too, Penny. For fuck’s sake. You’ve been as bad as the Old Families about this.”

His comment hangs heavy in the air between us. Especially knowing his _actual_ Old Family boyfriend has been incredibly supportive of him through the whole process. I feel like a total shit. 

“I trust you, Simon,” I say. “I’m sorry. I support you.” 

He lets out a long sigh on the other end of the phone.

“I know, Penny. It was just a fuckup. We all have them. You tend to have them a lot,” my breath catches in my throat. Simon isn’t usually cruel, but I guess I deserve it. “I mean, like a _lot_. You keep fucking up. You never took my plotting threats around Baz seriously, you married Shepard…” he trails off, laughing. 

“Fuck a nine-toed troll, Simon! I thought you were serious for a moment there. My heart fell into my arse!” 

“Good. Now you know what it feels like to have your friend break your heart,” his voice is hard and sad. It’s fair. He trusted me and I fucked up. 

“I’m sorry, Simon.”

“I know you are Pen. Now tell Shepard we’ve made up and it’s alright. I can hear him there in the background.” 

“Will do. Love you, Simon.”

“Love you too, Pen.”

Shepard is on me before I can even end the call. “How’d it go?”

I collapse into him and he holds me gently, rocking me from side to side. 

“Crap, but also great,” I sigh. Simon and I have been inseparable since we were 11. I can’t imagine a world where we’re not best friends. The last 24 hours have been terrible.

“Friendships are hard. We try our best, but we can still mess it all up. Sometimes you get to share dinner with a Bigfoot. Sometimes Pixies try to eat your face. That’s the way friendship goes,” Shepard says, stroking the back of my head. 

“You have lived a deeply strange life, Shepard,” I laugh into his chest. "And that's coming from _me_."

  
  


**Baz**

I’ve been locked in our study the last four hours working on my doctoral thesis without a break, so when Simon hesitantly taps at the door it’s a welcome distraction. 

“Tea?” he asks, entering with two mugs. I take mine, a mug that has ‘blood of my enemies’ spelled out in red script on one side. Simon got it for me for my birthday a few years back. He thinks he’s hilarious. His mug has a rainbow on it and says ‘positivitea’ underneath. 

Simon pulls out his desk chair and swings it around to face mine. When we moved in together we both insisted the flat have a spare bedroom we could convert into an office to share. We each have our work space in here set up the way we like. Mine is neat and meticulously organized while Simon’s is an absolute wreck. I can’t begrudge him his hastily tacked up notes on the wall and the piles of papers he’s scribbled with half-ideas. I love it. I genuinely love it, because it’s the antithesis of me. He’s creative and full of ideas. They burst and flow out of him all in a rush, just like his magic used to. Once every few months I’ll force him to tidy up the space, but otherwise our desks face away from each other so we’re spared the reality of the other’s workspace. 

I’m in my last year of my PhD program, it’s just the finishing touches on my thesis and then prepping to defend it. I’m finishing my study of linguistics and then, who knows? I think I’ll seek out a position at a University, perhaps here in London, but Simon’s already said he’s willing to move with me if I find something elsewhere. He actually rolled his eyes at me when I asked if he’d consider it, as if the idea of him not being with me was ludicrous. It made my heart tighten in my chest.

Sometimes we talk about what will come next, but not often. We’ve talked about going somewhere quieter, somewhere away from the rush, maybe buying a house together. Somewhere we could each have the privacy to hunt and fly. Simon’s not really a planner, though, so our conversations usually fizzle out. He’s more of a “wait until the last minute and then make a rash and hasty decision and hope it all works out” sort of fellow. We balance each other well. 

Right now he looks nervous, so I know I need to balance him with calm nonchalance. I sip my tea.

“So, I emailed the Coven to let them know I changed the title of the book,” Simon begins, swiveling in his chair. 

“And? Did they have anything intelligent to say?” I stretch out my legs until my feet are just touching Simon’s. 

“Well, this arrived a few hours later. Didn’t arrive with the post, either, it was slid under the door,” Simon replies, digging into his back pocket and removing an envelope that looks a little worse for wear, but has all the clear hallmarks of official Coven correspondence. 

I hold out my hand and he passes it over. 

“You haven’t opened it yet,” I notice. I also notice it’s addressed to us both. Not a good sign at all.

“Not yet.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I figure it can’t be good news, eh? It’s not an early Christmas card, now is it?” 

“Fair point,” I turn the envelope over in my hands. “Speaking of, we should discuss where we’re going to spend the holi-”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Simon leans forwards in his chair. 

“Most definitely. Is it working? Is there something else I could do to be more distracting?” I raise a suggestive eyebrow at him and drag my foot up his calf. 

“We have to open it eventually,” Simon says, reasonably. I pout. 

“Fine. Let’s open it after dinner. Let me work a few more hours and then we’ll see what kind of tortures they have in store for us,” I reach out with the envelope and slap Simon on the knee with it. He takes it and shoves it back in his pocket then stands above me for a moment, his hands on my shoulders. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. 

“Work hard, my little vampire Chomsky,” he whispers into my hair. Then he tugs on my ponytail.

“Get out, you menace,” I reply, smiling. “Chomsky is a genius and comparing me to him is blasphemy.” 

I hear Simon turn on the radio in the kitchen and then there are the telltale sounds and smells of him cooking dinner. 

Later, after we’ve eaten and are lounging around on the sofa watching Bake Off Simon brings up the envelope again. 

“We should open it, shouldn’t we?” he asks, fingers dragging over the envelope.

“In your own time, love. There’s no rush.” 

“What do you think it is?” Simon asks. 

“A filthy love letter. From Fernsby,” I respond. Simon chokes out a laugh.

“I think it’s a magical summons, love. I think the Coven have decided they’re through being ignored and are demanding our presence in person.”

“Magical summons?”

“It’ll force us to appear. Well, it’ll force _me_ to appear. They still don’t know your magic is back so it probably wouldn’t force you to do anything. It’ll compel me to appear though, and they think that’ll force you to come with me. It’s clever really, they’re using me to get to you.” 

“Of course. You’re my one weakness, Baz.”

“Well, sure, me and sausage rolls. And anything cooked in goose fat. And cheese and onion crisps. And-” Simon cuts me off mid list. 

“Yes, yes, I get it. _I like food_ ,” Simon rolls his eyes. 

“No. You _like_ Prue from Bake Off. You _love_ food,” I say, giving him a little nudge with my shoulder.

“I like Prue because she reminds me of Lady Salisbury. They both have that old lady Big Dick Energy,” Simon laughs. 

“Did you just say ‘old lady Big Dick Energy’?” I reply, a bit gobsmacked. Simon Snow is trash, I can’t take him anywhere. Not even our own living room. 

“You heard me. Don’t look so shocked,” Simon gives me a little shove. “Anyway, you have it too. Not the old lady bit, but the BDE.”

I don’t know what to say to that and I can tell my mouth is hanging open. 

Simon takes that moment to tear into the envelope. He leans against me and holds the paper up so we can both read. 

_The presence of Mr Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch and Mr Simon Snow are required before the Coven…_

Then there’s a date, a time, and an address. A fortnight from today. I feel the summons take hold as soon as I read the words. 

“Did you feel that?” Simon asks. “It felt like, I dunno...magical fish hooks or something. As soon as I read the words I was caught.” 

“That’s the Coven for you.”

“What are we going to do?” Simon asks. 

“Well, first this,” I take the summons from him and throw it over my shoulder to the floor. Then I push Simon backwards into the sofa, giving him a deep kiss. We get lost in kissing for a bit before I pull my mouth away. 

“What does your schedule look like tomorrow morning, Mr Poet?” I ask, running my hands up and down his sides. 

“Interview about the book at 9. Other than that, nothing.”

“Excellent. Then we’re going shopping-” Simon interrupts me with an eye roll and a grumble, but I raise a hand to cut him off. “Nope, shut it. Shut your beautiful mouth. We’re going into battle and we need armour.”

“You mean new suits, don’t you?” he moans.

“Yes, that’s what I said. Armour,” I shake my head. It's like he doesn't even know me.

“Ugh. Fine. But then you’re taking me out for a nice lunch. Somewhere unpretentious!” he says, crawling up off the sofa and swatting me on the leg. 

“No promises,” I reply.

**Simon**

Hell is the men's section of Harrod’s. Baz has been in a fitting room for at least a month now and it’s taking all my self-control not to turn into a petulant child and walk out of here in a full strop. 

I’m leaning against the wall outside the fitting room and texting with Shepard trying to explain the offside rule for at least the eighth time this year, when I hear Baz clear his throat. 

“You look great,” I say, not looking up from my phone. I don’t care if I seem rude. I’ve been ready to go for hours now. Weeks. Months. Years. 

“You haven’t even looked at me yet, you nightmare,” Baz huffs. I roll my eyes, put my phone away and turn to him. 

“Oh, shit,” I sort of croak out. I guess that’s the reaction he wanted, because he gives me a little smirk in the mirror where he’s examining himself. He’s wearing a velvet suit the color of blood. 

Blood red! Velvet! Who does he think he is? ...Baz Fucking Pitch, I guess. 

“It’s alright, then?” he says, still smirking. 

“Shit, Baz…” is all I can manage again. The way he looks in a suit should be illegal. It’s ridiculous. The color makes his skin luminous, like a pearl. And his body. His stupid, ridiculous body. In our years together he’s grown broader across the chest and shoulders, but his waist is still tiny and nipped in, his legs still those of a footballer. I feel myself salivating and heat rises in my face. 

“It’s not too much?” Baz asks, quirking up an eyebrow. 

“Oh, it’s _absolutely_ too much. But that’s your whole thing, isn’t it? So it’s perfect,” I lick my lips and start to advance on Baz, but he puts a flat palm against my chest to hold me at arm’s length before speaking over my shoulder.

“We’ll take this and the other that he tried on earlier,” Baz says to the shop assistant who managed to sneak up behind me unnoticed. They nod and hurry off towards the register, probably because it’ll take so long to punch in all those zeros when ringing them up.

“These are expensive, aren't they?” I ask Baz as he turns back to the mirror.

“It’s impossible to put a price on beauty, Snow,” he says, angling his body to eye himself up in the mirror. He definitely just checked out his own arse. And it looks great. Of course it does.

He has the gall to wink at me before he returns to his fitting room. 

“These damn suits are going to cost us more than I’ll make on my book!” I call out to him. 

“That’s a pretty poor attitude, Snow. Have a little confidence in yourself,” Baz says. His voice is muffled as he works his way out of a shirt or something. I get a little lost in thought for a moment and wish we were home so I could be the one getting him out of his shirt. 

“Anyway, we’re worth it,” he says finally emerging from the fitting room, suit back on the hanger, but looking no less fuckable in his jeans and jumper. Damn him.

“Don’t know if it is worth it,” I say rubbing the back of my neck. 

“You’re out of sorts, Snow. I’m guessing low blood sugar. Come on, let’s get you something to eat,” Baz says, handing his card over to the shop assistant. 

“Not here, right? I can’t stand all this fussy nonsense.” 

“No, not here. We’ll go somewhere with bad lighting and plastic seats where you can tear at a slab of meat like the animal you are.” 

“How long have you two been together?” The shop assistant asks with a laugh. 

“Too fucking long,” I say at the same time Baz says “Eight blissful years.”

The shittiness between Baz and I has been a comforting, enduring constant in my life. No matter what the situation, no matter how much the world is against us, I can count on us both to be shittier and worse.

Because I know it’s all for play. Because I know when it actually comes down to it Baz will say something like “eight blissful years” to a total fucking stranger and absolutely mean it. 

The shop assistant zips our suits up into garment bags that probably cost more than everything I’m wearing right now. We head out into the chilly late morning air.

“Just so you know, Baz. When we get home I’m going to need to get you into and then almost immediately back out of that suit,” I snarl into his ear once we're outside on the sidewalk. Baz hums a bit to himself. 

“Same, love. Same,” he says, hailing down a passing cab. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... I wrote this fic (and Baz's burgundy suit) before the cover art for AWTWB dropped. Does this mean all my headcanons are coming true?! Will half of AWTWB be Simon successfully navigating therapy? Will we learn Baz studied Linguistics at LSE (had to look it up and make sure it was offered there)? Will Lady Salisbury exhibit BDE?! I hope yes to all of these.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz puts his hand on my shoulder. His fingers grip me tight and I feel more powerful with him here. Even though I know it's not possible, it feels like he's pushing his magic into me. Sharing his power. It feels like something. Like support. Like Love.
> 
> “Tell them,” Baz whispers, so quietly I can barely hear him. “Go. Off." 
> 
> ___
> 
> The inevitable meeting with the Coven and Simon goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few brief, passing mentions of sex, as per usual. I find I can't write these two dummies without including their ever-present sidekick: Overactive Libidos. 
> 
> TW: mentions of the kind of child endangerment we know happened to Simon from the books at the hands of the Mage, including injuries. Not a lot of detail, but it's still there if you'll find that triggering.

**Baz**  
We’re dressing for our appointment with the Coven and Simon is fussing over the top button of his shirt. He said he felt like it was smothering him. I told him I’d smother him if he didn’t stand still and stop fiddling with the buttons. 

He looks delicious. Like something I would gladly eat or at the very least swallow down whole. He always looks delicious though, even in old jeans and a ratty t-shirt, but somehow this suit is utterly destroying me.

It’s three piece, camel colored, with a chocolate brown windowpane pattern, and a thin light blue check. His waistcoat is a dark brown velvet. He’s wearing a white shirt and a tie the same color as my suit, a deep blood red. I’m wearing a pale blue shirt to match the stripe running through his suit. (And his eyes.) We look exceptional together, complementary, without being matchy.

The menace hasn’t even bothered to look at himself in the mirror. If he did he’d stop complaining immediately because he looks incredible. His bronze curls fall over his tawny, freckled forehead in a delicious spill of browns and tans. Everything about him looks warm and vibrant and inviting right now. He looks like he’s lit up from the inside, glowing and radiant. Yet he won't stop fucking complaining.

“I don’t get why I have to wear a damn tie and be all trussed up in this naff waistcoat when your shirt is unbuttoned halfway down your fucking chest!” 

“Because I will be more intimidating if I look like I’m not taking this seriously and you’ll be more intimidating if you look like you _are_.”

He huffs and tugs at his tie again. I push his hands away gently and adjust it for him, then I use just the barest amount of my supernatural strength to shove him in front of the mirror so he will finally get a look at himself. 

“Oh,” he says, as his eyes go wide. His hands trace lightly over the jacket and down his sides. “I, er- I actually look quite good, don’t I?” he says, flushing up to his ears.

I aggressively roll my eyes at him.

“Yes, you nightmare. I’ve been trying to tell you this. You look fit as fuck and battle-ready,” I say, letting my chin rest on his shoulder. 

“And you look nice as well, Baz. Not as good as me, but nice,” Simon laughs. 

“Ha. You’re funny,” I swat him on the arse. “Now get ready. Fiona texted to say she’s fifteen minutes away.” 

“Uuuuuugh,” Simon groans dramatically. “Why do we have to ride with Fiona?” He asks for the thousandth time. 

“I’ve told you, Snow. She offered, she has to drive past our flat anyway, and if she drives we can annoy her by cuddling in the backseat.”

Once we’re seated in the back of Fiona’s MG (she still won’t let me sit in the front seat) and on our way out of London Simon’s nerves start to show. He’s fiddling with the proof of his book he’s brought with him. He’ll shred it into confetti before we even get there if he keeps pulling at the paper like that, so I place my hand over his and squeeze. Simon sighs and leans into me, pressing a soft kiss to my jaw. 

“Oi! No snogging in my car!” Fiona barks. 

“Crowley, we’re not snogging, Fi. It was a peck,” I say, raising my eyebrow at her. She raises hers back at me-I can see it in the rear view mirror. 

“Don’t sass me, boyo, or I’ll boot your fancy velvet arse out onto the pavement and you can hitch your way there,” she says threateningly before mumbling under her breath. “ _Fucking' velvet suit_.” 

Simon is laughing to himself, his shoulders shaking. 

“Yeah, laugh it up, Chosen One,” Fiona snarls. “Your get up makes you look like you should be publishing a fucking book of poetry.” 

Simon looks confused. “But...I am?” he says. 

“Exactly,” Fiona snaps. 

Simon turns to me and mouths “ _what the actual fuck_?” before shrugging and leaning back into me. I loop an arm around his shoulders and play with his curls a bit. Not enough to mess them up, but just enough to make Simon release some of the tension he’s holding in his shoulders. 

“What’s your game plan, Chosen One?” Fiona asks over her shoulder. 

Simon responds without missing a beat. “Give them absolute hell,” I squeeze his shoulder. 

“Don’t know how well that plan will work out for you, kiddo,” she laughs.

“No offense, Fiona, but your opinion means fuckall to me,” Simon retorts. 

Fiona smiles wickedly back at him and slams her hand against the steering wheel. I wince, but Fiona’s words catch me off guard. “Good! Yes! That’s the attitude you’ll need if you wanna win this thing, Chosen One. Keep up that shitty demeanor and don’t let it slip for a moment. Kick against the pricks!” 

“Stop quoting Nick Cave albums at us, Fi, nobody wants to hear your punk rock philosophy,” I say, still reeling from her supporting Simon. 

“It’s also a verse from the bible, boyo. I’d have thought a linguist would know that,” Fiona mumbles. She has no clue what I do. I’ve explained it to her multiple times, but she’s purposefully obtuse and ignores me. 

Fiona cranks up the radio and someone’s thick, gobby voice blares through the speakers. The city slides into the distance behind us. Simon nuzzles into my shoulder again and I run my hand up and down his thigh.

**Fiona**

Baz thinks he’s subtle, but if he slides his hand a centimeter higher I’ll snap his wrist faster than he can scream "No, Aunt Fiona, that’s the arm I use for wanking!”

They are cute though. Sweet, in a grotesque kind of way.

Wonder how long that sweetness will last when they're up against the Coven?

I hope they know what they're in for. I hope they know how dirty the Coven can fight when they want to. 

I told Baz I wanted to be there to watch this circus unfold, but really it's because I might need to be there to pick up the pieces. I might need to hold Baz back from ripping all their tracheas from their throats.

I'm not actually sure whose protection I'm going for, the Coven's or these two idiots?

**Simon**

I’ve left my wand back at our flat. Baz felt it was best since the Coven still don’t know about my magic. We don’t want to risk someone spotting it, questioning why I’m carrying it and then a whole other tribunal breaking out over my magic returning. 

That’s to say, Baz has to spell the wrinkles out of my suit before we enter. He does the same to himself before adjusting my tie by hand. 

“Am I presentable?” I ask. 

“You’re edible,” Baz says. 

“Later,” I wink at him. Fiona makes a retching noise before pulling out her cigarettes and waving us off into the building without her. 

Penny, Mitali Bunce, and Dr Wellbelove are standing around speaking to one another in the entrance hall. Their conversation stops when they see us. Penny freezes for a moment before breaking into a hesitant smile.

“Simon. It’s good to see you, son, even under unfortunate circumstances,” Dr Wellbelove shakes my hand and claps me on the shoulder. He’s remained kind and supportive, even if the rest of the Coven seem to forget I helped save the blasted World of Mages. 

“Basilton, you look well,” he says, shaking Baz’s hand.

“Dr Wellbelove. Headmistress Bunce,” Baz says, shaking each hand in turn. 

“Simon, you look…” Mrs Bunce starts to say, an edge of confusion to her voice, as if she doesn’t know how to describe the way I look. I guess it’s not surprising, she’s really only ever seen me in my Watford uniform or trackies and a hoodie. “You look-”

“Like a maths professor who’s also an amateur bird-watcher that collects rare snail shells in his free time?” Fiona barks out as she walks up to join us. Penny snorts. 

“You look great, Simon,” Penny says, reaching out to touch my arm gently. She turns to Baz, eyes him up and down. “You could have made more of an effort, Baz,” she laughs. Baz flips two fingers at Penny when he thinks no one is looking. 

Just then the doors to the main chamber swing open and we can see the Coven taking seats inside at a series of long curving tables. Two mages come out to join us, Merton and Fernsby. 

“Mr Snow. Mr Grimm-Pitch,” they nod at us. “Thank you for coming.”

“Did we have a choice?” Baz drawls. 

Fernsby turns to me and eyes me up. “Lovely waistcoat, Mr Snow,” he says. Baz nudges me subtly with the toe of one of his extremely shiny shoes and I have to play off my choked reaction as if there is something stuck in my throat. 

“Shall we?” Merton asks, gesturing towards the main chamber.

“Alright!” Fiona appears between Baz and I, clapping us both on the shoulders and making us jump. “Let’s get this shit-show started!” She shoves past us to take a seat up near the front. 

Fucking Fiona. 

**Penny**

Simon looks fierce. He’s gone into battle mode since he entered the building, jaw set, eyes steely and determined. Baz looks like he couldn’t give less of a fuck about what happens, but that’s classic Baz. That's his battle mode. He’s slouching in his seat, arm draped over the back of Simon’s chair, occasionally leaning over to whisper something in his ear. Simon will nod and make a little note on a pad of paper he’s extracted from his jacket pocket and put on the table between them.

I don’t know this Simon. He’s composed. He’s in control. He’s an adult. Nicks and Slick, when did we become adults?

The Coven started with some vague and easy questions. They always do. But they’ve ramped up the intensity now, trying to catch Simon off guard.

“Mr Snow, we’ve read the transcript of a BBC radio interview you did around a year and a half ago. In it you said the following,” Mrs Sourstone clears her throat and I assume she’s about to read from the transcript, but instead her wand has appeared in her hand and she casts. Simon’s voice fills the hall. They’ve magic’ed up the bloody interview. 

“ _Well_ , _words are magical, aren’t they? You can create the kind of world you want to live in when you’re writing. You can use words to remake the world into what you want it to be..._ ” Mrs Sourstone waves her wand in the air again and Simon’s voice stops as abruptly as it started.

“Care to elaborate why you would equate words with magic, Mr Snow? Because to those of us on the Coven it feels a bit like you’re giving out trade secrets on a national radio program.” 

“In my defense, it was Radio Four. The fact we listened to it just now probably doubled the total number of people who’ve heard it,” Simon responds coolly. 

He stares the Coven down, still and calm. 

“It just seems an interesting choice of words-” Simon cuts the speaker off. 

“Mages don’t have exclusive rights to the word _magical_. Magical does have meaning and context to Normals. You seem to be the only ones who are confused.” 

“Hmm,” Sourstone makes a note on a piece of paper, her mouth is pinched. 

“While there are no specific or overt mentions of magic in your book, Mr Snow, there are several passages and poems which seem to vaguely reference magical concepts and ideas, and even your life back when you were a mage.” 

“How would you know? I haven’t given you copies of my book,” Simon questions. 

One of the Coven members raps on the table with their knuckles and a door to the side of the room opens. A man enters holding a tall stack of bound papers in his hands. Are those copies of his book? Nicks and Slick, even I haven’t seen a copy yet and I’m his best friend. Simon sits up a little straighter in his seat. Baz maintains his aloof mask, but I can tell he’s shaken, because he’s sucking at the spot where his fangs would pop. 

“I’d appreciate knowing where you were able to get copies of a book that hasn’t been published yet,” Simon practically growls at them. 

Mrs Sourstone smiles before responding. “We have our ways.”

“Let’s start with the poem on page 14,” Merton says, flipping open his copy of Simon’s book. I see Baz roll his eyes. “On this page you make reference to, and I quote, _rising fire within/his life and mine/giving and giving and giving._ To me that sounds an awful lot like the way you’ve described going off in your trial for the Mage’s death and destruction of the Humdrum. Could you speak a bit more to what those lines reference?” He finishes, looking over his glasses at Simon. They think they’ve got him.

Simon’s mouth is pulled into a tight line, but there is a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He leans over and whispers something to Baz. They have a quiet, whispered exchange. Baz smirks and nods gently, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back further in his chair to watch the Coven. 

“It’s not about going off, it’s about getting off. That particular poem was written about having sex with my boyfriend,” Simon responds matter-of-factly, but his eyes are twinkling. There is stunned silence. 

“I can get into the mechanics of it, if that’s whats confusing you,” Simon says calmly. Fiona snorts loudly and slaps her hand on the chair beside her. She can barely suppress her laughter. Baz’s expression is haughty. Both he and Simon are daring the Coven to say something, anything, that continues this line of questioning. 

The Coven look gobsmacked and it takes them a moment to collect themselves before they’re able to begin again. 

“Um, well, then- let’s turn to page 22-” they start, before Simon leans forward towards the Coven. 

“Is that the one titled _Water Into an Empty Well_?” Simon asks. 

“Yes, that’s the one. I was wondering if-”

“Nope,” Simon says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “That ones also about sex,” he says firmly. “And you'll **_absolutely_ **want to avoid page 61.” 

Neither Fiona or I can keep our laughter in at this point. My mother is rolling her eyes where she sits with the other members of the Coven. I decide to contribute some unsolicited thoughts. 

“Having shared a flat with them,” I chime in. “I can attest that they do go at it rather a lot. Three poems about sex seems like a small number, honestly.” 

Simon flushes just a bit, around the edge of his ears, but maintains his cool. Baz leans over the back of his chair and shoots me a wink. I think he’s forgiven me. 

**Simon**

I don’t know what’s possessing me right now. I’ve just admitted three poems in my collection are about sex. Sex with the person I’m sitting next to. Sex with the heir to what may be the most well respected and feared Old Family in the community. I should feel worse, right? Some level of embarrassment or fear or shame? 

I don’t. 

When they asked their question I leaned over to Baz to make sure it was ok for me to tell them the truth. I could feel myself ready to snap and I knew I should check with him first. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear “Give them hell, love,” before squeezing my leg reassuringly. I whispered to him that surely it would get back to his family. He just squeezed harder and said “ _you’re_ my family.” 

That was enough for me. 

Hell, if it gets them to leave us alone I’m prepared to say the entire book is about sex. 

I turn back to the Coven. 

“Do you have any actual concerns about my book or are you trying to get a free sex ed lesson out of me?” I ask. Baz lets out a tiny laugh. I don’t know where this confidence is coming from, but it feels wonderful. Maybe Baz was right, maybe it’s the suit that's making me feel bold. Or maybe it’s 8 years of therapy. Or maybe I’ve just grown up. 

The Coven blusters for a moment. Half can’t make eye contact with me and the others are shuffling papers as if the answer to their questions will lay there. 

“It seems to me,” I lean forward, pressing my fingertips against the table. “That you’ve decided you don’t want me to publish a book at all and you’ll grab at whatever you can in order to justify that decision. Have you noticed that the letter ‘I’ looks startlingly like a wand? Merlin’s beard! And a dash is a sideways wand! Great Snakes! Surely the Normals will figure it out from that alone!”

“Simon, you're being sarcastic,” Penny’s mom begins, chiding me. 

“It’s Mr Snow” I say, gritting my jaw. “And I'm treating this Coven with the respect it has _earned_. You've never once shown any care or concern for me before now. You let me spend my childhood fighting beasts and creatures that broke my body and left me with a lifetime of trauma. All while you, the adults, sat in the comfort of this room, the club, or your homes. I fought off dragons. Twice! Goblins tried to kill me for years! Countless Bonety Hunters came after me! My childhood was one long string of attacking and defending! My childhood! _I was a child_!” I’m not shouting, but my voice is raised and cold as steel. 

Of all the monstrous creatures that have hurt me, the Coven is the one group of monsters I’ve never gone off on.

I’ve always felt in their debt, somehow. That I owed them for letting me into Watford, for showing me magic, for letting me imagine I could be one of them. Owed them after draining the magic from the country, even though I know now that wasn’t my fault. I felt, somehow, that I owed them for not exiling me completely after it was all over. 

But that’s all wrong. I don’t owe them shit. 

“You ruined my life as a child. You knowingly let the Mage use and manipulate me time and time again. You let him risk my life. I was a child. Do you hear me? _A child_. Are you getting this through your thick fucking skulls?” 

Baz puts his hand on my shoulder. His fingers grip me tight and I feel more powerful with him here. Even though I know it's not possible, it feels like he's pushing his magic into me. Sharing his power. It feels like something. Like support. Like Love.

“Tell them,” Baz whispers, so quietly I can barely hear him. “Go. Off." 

And I do. I can’t go off with my magic anymore, but I can go off with my words. I can use my words. 

**Baz**

Simon is fearless. He’s powerful. He’s terrifying. 

He’s tearing into the Coven now, using words I didn’t know he knew. 

Malfeasance. Criminal neglect. Abuse of power. Dereliction. Child endangerment.

I’m leaning back against my chair, watching him as he speaks. The Coven don’t realize who they’re up against. Simon will charge into a battle armed with nothing but his moral compass as a weapon. I’ve watched him break up fights between strangers twice his size just because he knew it was the right thing to do. 

But he's armed for this one. In fact, I don't think the Coven realize that Simon is armed to the teeth for this particular battle. He’s been preparing for this moment for years. Through therapy, through his writing, through his work on himself. 

Simon has had time to recover from our childhood of trauma. He’s had a good therapist who’s helped him reflect. Helped _us_ reflect. And he knows how fucked up everything that happened was. We both do. 

“I killed a dragon when I was eleven. Eleven. Do you know what that does to a child? I had nightmares for years. There was the giant serpent at 12, the Selkies, the Gorgons, the Banshee.” 

No one on the coven is speaking, they’re all blanched and still, listening to Simon speak. 

"When I was twelve and fighting the giant serpent it shattered all the bones in my left hand. The Mage couldn't heal me right away, he said he needed to collect it's venom while it was still fresh. Snake venom was more important than healing a twelve year old kid's hand. You all know how long a healing spell takes. No time. No time at all."

I wince. So does the better part of the Coven. He just keeps going. Simon was always focused and fearsome in battle. This is no exception. He's mowing us down with his words.

“Do you know how I spent my thirteenth birthday? I was fighting Fray-bugs. They fractured my ribs and pelvis. How did you spend your thirteenth birthday, Headmistress Bunce?” She shakes her head. Doesn’t answer. “Or you, Mr Merton? Any of you?” He pauses for dramatic effect. He lets them reflect, lets us all reflect. “Can’t remember or too ashamed to share?” Simon says, flatly. 

“How about the summer you were fifteen? Did you spend it at the club riding horses or whatever the fuck you people do? Or did you spend it in a care home where you were continually beaten up by a set of older boys who just didn’t like the look of you? All because your adoptive guardian didn’t want you around in the summers and you stank of magic you weren't taught to control.”

"We didn't know…" Merton starts to say. 

"You knew," Simon seethes. "You all knew. You just looked the other way and let it happen. I was a means to an end. Or perhaps you were just too scared to stand up to my abuser. Shame on you for that."

“Throughout my entire childhood you’ve been perfectly comfortable putting me in danger, making a child fight your battles for you. Now that you experience a small level of worry over my attempt at a normal life you’re suddenly concerned? No,” Simon shakes his head emphatically. “No, that’s not how this goes. That’s not how this story ends.”

Simon stands. Not hurriedly, but slowly. With purpose. He leans across the table. Every muscle in his body looks taut. I suck in a deep breath, waiting for what will come next. I have no clue what he's about to say.

“Here’s how things will go. You’re going to leave me and Baz alone. For good. You will not contact us unless it is to issue a public apology for the trauma and distress you caused me as a child. Caused us both! You will also need to consider some monetary compensation for all the years you used me as the Coven’s personal, unpaid, and _underage_ bodyguard and assassin,” Simon presses his fingers against the table. 

Merton starts to open his mouth. Simon raises a hand and cuts him off. 

“Further, if I learn you’ve contacted my publisher or agent, attended any of my book signings or readings, or gotten copies of my books without my permission I will personally, _personally_ , ensure that the two most powerful mages I know,” he gestures back towards Penny and myself. “Curse you into a fucking stupor.” 

Mrs Sourstone bristles. “Is that a threat, Mr Snow?” 

“No, Mrs Sourstone, it’s a fucking promise,” Simon sticks out his jaw, challenging them to fight back. 

They don’t. Simon takes a deep breath. He nods and turns to me. “Ready to go, darling?” he asks. I melt. I die. I swoon. 

“Simon, could I-” I start to ask. He nods, his mouth a tight line.

“Yeah, Baz. Say whatever you want to them. I’m done here,” he starts to gather up our things. 

I don’t want to say anything to them, but there’s a great deal I’d like to do. I lean around him and call up a small flame above each of my fingertips. With a flick of my wrist I send them out to land on the copies of Simon’s book sitting in front of each member of the Coven, lighting them ablaze. They’re furiously casting to put out the fires. 

“All done?” Simon asks. I nod. I’m done here too. 

“Penny, want a lift back?” he calls. Fiona doesn’t even fight it when Simon invites Penny to join us.

We leave the building silently, the only sound is the crunching of gravel as we cross the small car park. 

Simon holds my hand as we walk.

“Fucking hell, boyo. You went _off_ ,” Fiona says, finally breaking the silence. “I can see why my nephew is head-over-heels. Hell, I have a bit of a crush on you now, to be honest.” 

We all crack under the stress and our laughter is a bit too loud. It verges on hysterical. 

“Think it’ll work? Think they’ll leave us alone?” Simon asks, tugging his tie loose and unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. 

“Who knows?” Penny shrugs. “They’re pretty awful. But they’re aging out and before long we can replace them on the Coven. Maybe then we’ll have a chance to make things better in a real and meaningful way.” 

“Think you’d want to do that?” Simon asks, looking to both Penny and I. 

We both shrug. The thought hadn’t occurred to me until now, honestly. But I could see it. Actually, I could see all three of us sitting on the Coven. Making things better, _actually better_. More fair. More equitable. More inclusive.

Two queer Coven members, one a vampire, one half-dragon, and a multiracial Coven member who’s married to a Normal? Fifteen year old me would balk at it. He’d say it was insulting our traditions, but fifteen year old me was a self-loathing prat. I think it sounds beautiful and just and good. 

We stop off at a pub on the way back, it's a small place just off the road. Mostly empty at this hour. We eat and drink and laugh about what’s happened. About the ridiculousness of it all. Fiona asks Simon to read the poem from page 61 out loud. She makes rude gestures and retching noises through it while Penny rolls her eyes and covers her ears. Fiona winds up getting too far into her cups and leans hard on Penny as we walk back out to the car. 

“Here, boyo. You drive,” she slurs. I think she’s throwing her keys to me. Instead she flings them at Simon. His eyes widen in surprise. 

“Come on, Chosen One. Get us back on the road. Baz, you sit up front, I need to take a nap in the backseat.” 

Simon looks at me, eyebrows raised. I stare back at him. It feels like something is happening here, the ground is shifting and changing beneath us. 

I clap my hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Well, you heard the horrible old lush. Let’s get going, Snow.” 

Fiona hisses at me from the back seat. 

Simon drives us back into London. We drop Penny outside her flat with a promise to meet her and Shepard the next day for dinner. Then we drop Fiona off at her place; I walk her up as Simon parks her car. I leave a glass of water and two paracetamol on her bedside table along with her car keys once Simon joins us.

“Oi,” Fiona slurs from her bed as we start to leave her room. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“Umm, ok?” Simon replies, confused.

Fiona waves her arm angrily and points at me.

“I'm not talkin' to you, Chosen One. I’m talking to him, the Velvet One. Don’t fuck this up, nephew,” she grunts. “Chosen One's a goddamn keeper,” she says before pulling her duvet up over her head. “Now get the fuck outta my flat, I gotta sleep for the next 12 hours at least.” 

“I’m a goddamn keeper,” Simon smirks at me as I close Fiona’s door behind us. 

“I’ve always known you are.”

Simon bumps his shoulder into mine as we walk downstairs.

“Home now, love?” I ask as we leave Fiona’s building.

“Dunno, Baz. Seems a shame to waste these nice suits,” Simon says, nudging his elbow into me. “Maybe we go for a drink? Somewhere close to the flat though.” 

I’m surprised. We’d both rather stay in than go out, but I’m not going to say no to Simon. Not in that suit. Not after he won his battle. He can have whatever he wants. I'll give him anything. Everything.

We walk around the corner to where traffic is busier and I hail us a cab. 

“So I think that went well. It felt good, at least, even if they do excommunicate us or strike us from the fucking book or whatever,” Simon says once we’re settled in the back. 

“You stood up to them brilliantly. You’ve given them a lot to think about. You were brave and honest and wonderful, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Baz. I’m proud of me, too. Crowley, it felt really fucking good to say all that to them.”

“Where did that bit about monetary compensation for your work come from? That was brilliant.”

“Dunno,” he says, rubbing his neck. “Maybe thinking about how fucking expensive these suits were and wanting to get some of that money back.” 

We laugh. 

He sighs and knocks his knee into mine. I check to see if the cabbie is paying any attention to us. He’s not. I squeeze Simon’s upper thigh, run my fingers over it up to where his leg joins his abdomen. 

“Just the one drink. Then home, right?” I ask, reaching in to pinch the fleshy part of his inner thigh through his suit. Simon’s eyes go wide. 

“Yeah, just the one,” he gulps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon SNAPPED. 
> 
> This was wildly cathartic to write.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shop assistant comes over, they’re just a kid really, about 17-18. “Can I help you find anything?” they ask kindly. 
> 
> “No, umm, we-we’re-” I begin to sputter before Baz rescues me. 
> 
> “We’ve found it, actually, thank you. This stammering mess is, shockingly, the author of that book right there. We just wanted to see it in its natural habitat of a bookstore,” Baz says, gesturing between me and the book. I’m fairly certain I blush all the way from the tips of my ears down to my toes. 
> 
> \----  
> TW: mentions of food insecurity, skip the 3rd & 4th paragraphs if that's triggering
> 
> \---  
> It's book release day. It's finally here. Their celebration takes a few unexpected turns.

**Simon**

It’s book release day. It’s finally here. 

We’re going out for dinner to celebrate. Baz insisted and I find I’m actually looking forward to it because it’s somewhere low-key. I like to tease him about his pretentious taste, but he’s really lovely about finding places to eat I wouldn’t try on my own. 

He thinks I don't notice, but he loves me through food. At first I think he took it as a personal challenge to make up for all the years I struggled with food insecurity in the summers and then gorged myself at Watford. My therapist and I worked on that for a good long while, the food insecurity. Baz helped. A lot. Still does.

He keeps the fridge stocked with things I like so I never get that anxious feeling that the food might run out. That sweaty nervous feeling. That tightness in the gut and the urgency to eat and eat and eat, because what if it all goes away? But it doesn't go away. I remind myself I'm safe here. And Baz doing the shopping helps make me feel safe.

He gets the things I like. Frozen pizzas and chips and sausage rolls. Apples so tart they make my eyes water and berries so dark they stain our lips and tongues. And he gets things I've never heard of before. Biltong. Dried jackfruit. Ube jam.

I think he takes it as a personal challenge to find something I _won't_ like. 

We’re on the tube headed out to our celebration dinner now, I think he said it's a Sri Lankan restaurant, but I can't remember. I trust him, I'm sure I'll love it. I always do.

Baz taps my arm and gestures for us to get off a stop early. 

“Where are we going?” I ask him as we leave the station. He tugs on my hand and pulls me around a corner towards a bookshop. 

“I want to buy your book,” he says, smiling. His grey eyes sparkle silver and his dark hair is spilling over one eye in a soft wave and Crowley, he looks so beautiful I consider shoving him down an alley and snogging the life out of him.

He would insist that's impossible, that there's no life in him, but that's a lie. It's always a lie, but especially now when his eyes are lit with mischief and pride and something else I can't quite read. He's so very alive.

“Baz, we don't need to go in. We have a thousand copies at home,” I protest. 

He doesn’t realize I’ve brought a copy with me that’s just for him. A gift.

“I know, but I want to see it in a bookstore, on a shelf, where it belongs. And I want _you_ to see it there too,” he says, opening the door and gesturing me inside.

We head towards the poetry section but don’t get very far. Just a few steps in and there's a table full of new releases. My book is sitting on it. There is a neat little stack of them there with a card sticking out of the top of the display copy that reads “ _Staff Pick: Frankie recommends. Stark, brutal, and yet breathtakingly hopeful. These poems bleed universal truths. Read this immediately! LGBTQIA+ author_."

I suddenly find it very hard to breathe.

“Baz…” I manage to croak out. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulls me close and kisses the side of my head. 

“Simon. Love,” he whispers into my hair before pulling away from me and fumbling in his pocket for his phone. He snaps off a quick photo of the display and looks back at me guiltily. 

“I had to. I know you don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but it is rather a big deal, Simon.” 

A shop assistant comes over, they’re just a kid really, about 17-18. “Can I help you find anything?” they ask kindly. 

“No, umm, we-we’re-” I begin to sputter before Baz rescues me. 

“We’ve found it, actually, thank you. This stammering mess is, shockingly, the author of that book right there. We just wanted to see it in its natural habitat of a bookstore,” Baz says, gesturing between me and the book. I’m fairly certain I blush all the way from the tips of my ears down to my toes. 

“Holy shit, you’re Simon Snow? I love your work! I follow you on twitter! I wrote that recommendation!” The shop assistant’s eyes have gone wide and they’re pointing at the staff pick sign. 

“I hope this isn’t too forward of me, but would you mind signing a few copies while you’re here? Umm, including mine? Would that be alright?” I nod. Their face is glowing. They rush off and reappear with a pen, a small roll of “signed by the author” stickers for the front of the books, and what looks like their own personal copy. 

“Umm, do we have time for this?” I ask Baz. “Will it make us late for dinner?” 

“Sod dinner, this is more important,” Baz says. He’s still beaming at me. He looks like a proud parent or I guess what I imagine a proud parent would look like. I wouldn’t know. It doesn't matter that I wouldn't know. All that matters is I've done something that makes him look at me like that.

I sign my name on the title page of each copy of the book and then scribble a dedication in the front of the shop assistant Frankie’s copy. Baz thinks I don’t notice when he takes a couple more pictures on his phone.

“Thanks so much, Mr Snow,” Frankie says as I hand them back their copy. “And-I’m so sorry, I know I’m making an absolute tit of myself, but I just...you...your poetry means a lot to me. I grew up in care myself and well...” they trail off.

I stand there awkwardly for a moment, not knowing what to say and sort of wanting to bundle Frankie up in a big hug even though I’m sure it wouldn’t be appropriate. 

“It just means a lot to know there is hope for the future and things can get better for a queer kid who grew up in care,” they smile at me sheepishly. My heart thuds in my chest.

Sod it. I open my arms and Frankie smiles and launches themself at me. They barely come up to my shoulders, so I’m staring at Baz as Frankie hugs the stuffing out of me. Baz is smiling like a loon, I can tell I’m grinning like an idiot, and Frankie is squeezing me so tight I’m confident I’ll have bruised ribs when this is all over. 

“Thanks Frankie, that means-” my words catch in my throat. I swallow and take a deep breath. “That means a lot. Thanks. And you’re right. Things can get definitely get better for a queer kid in care.” 

Baz has taken a copy of the book up to the register with Frankie to buy it, but I hang back at the display a bit longer thinking over what’s happened. 

I don’t know what to make of this interaction. It knocked me for a loop.

I’m not famous, not by any definition of the word, but to know that someone read my ridiculous poetry and it meant something so big to them is...a lot. These poems have helped me process my trauma and find myself and maybe they’re helping others process their own trauma and find themselves, too. I thought this book was for me. I thought it was my way to use my words. I guess I'm realizing that maybe they aren't my words at all.

Maybe the title, _Use Your Words,_ isn't the cathartic endgame I thought it was. Maybe it's a call to arms. A battle cry.

I feel warmth spread through me. I get the feeling of standing on the edge of something large and important. A vast and open plane of possibility.

Baz has returned, the book tucked under his arm. 

“Ready, Snow?” he says, still beaming. I wave goodbye to Frankie and we head out into the night. 

**Baz**

We weren’t even that late for dinner, not that it matters. That was worth it. So worth it. Simon has been positively glowing since we left the bookstore.

The restaurant isn’t terribly busy and we eat quietly, both of us clearly mulling over the interaction we just had in our heads. 

“You alright, love?” I ask eventually. 

“That was a lot, Baz. I’m not dumb, I know I’m an ok writer. Can’t get a book deal if you totally suck, but still...that was a lot. I didn’t realize what it might mean to someone who is...like me.”

I nod. “Representation matters, right? It’s important to see people who share your identities out there in the world, being their authentic selves. Surviving. Thriving.” 

Simon nods. His curls bounce ridiculously on his forehead. I want to run my fingers through them and tell him his much I adore him. Tell him how much he means to me. How much he clearly means to others. How glad I am that we continue to survive. Thrive. 

As the Chosen One he's always been important in the World of Mages, which made him feel like everything else about his life was a mistake, a waste. I think he's beginning to see that perhaps that's not true. Perhaps all those things about himself he felt were sad and normal are what actually make him special. Those are the things that make him a hero, not slaying dragons and wielding a sword. Surviving life when everything was stacked against him, that's epic and heroic.

“Thank you,” he says, reaching his hand across the table, palm up. I put my hand in his and squeeze. “Thank you for dealing with what a mess I’ve been this last year and a half.”

“Oh, I’ve been dealing with what a mess you’ve been for a good deal longer than that, Simon Snow,” I laugh. I know he’s talking about the process of getting his book published, but I can’t resist teasing.

“Shut up, Baz. Let me finish,” he says, smiling. 

I shut up. I let him finish. 

“Thank you, for everything you’ve done to support me and keep me healthy...you know, in my brain and--and--in my heart. To help me process and get to a place where I can do this. I don’t think you ever saw the actual final copy of the book before tonight. I know you just bought yourself one, even though I tried to tell you not to," Simon rolls his eyes as he talks. "But here. This is for you.”

He pulls a copy of his book out of his jacket pocket and places it gently in my hands. 

I run my fingers over the cover. It really is beautiful. Everything about it is lovely. 

“Open it,” Simon whispers, blue eyes sparkling. 

I do. I crack the spine and turn to the title page. I run my fingers over his name there. Simon Snow. He’s signed it for me in his scratchy uneven handwriting. 

_Baz,_

_Thank you._

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

_-Simon_

“You’re sorry?” I ask. 

“Turn to the dedication,” Simon says. There’s mischief in his eyes.

I suck in a deep breath and flip to the dedication page. I read. 

_For Baz._

_The love of my life, who pushed me down the stairs when we were kids at school._

I look up at Simon whose body is convulsing trying to control his laughter. 

“Is this in all of them!?” I pull out the copy I just bought and flip to the dedication page. There it is, staring right back at me. That fucker.

“Snow, you absolute nightmare, I keep telling you _I didn’t push you down those stairs_!” I hiss at him.

Simon’s laughter explodes out of him, disturbing the peace of the diners around us. A few heads snap our direction and I gesture in apology. 

He's wiping a tear from his eye, he’s laughing so hard. He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. 

“I’m so sorry Baz, but I had to. I just had to,” he laughs. "This settles it once and for all. It's in print, that makes it true. You pushed me down those stairs."

“You’re a menace, Snow. A complete and utter nightmare. This is captured for posterity! Our children will read this someday,” the words sort of slip out. Shit.

Simon stops laughing immediately. He raises his eyebrows and leans forward in his chair. We don’t talk about the future much. Whether marriage or a family is something we want. Simon’s not a planner.

“Baz…” Simon starts, his voice low and tender. “Do you-do you want children someday?” 

“I don’t know, Snow. It just sort of came out,” I try to play it off. “Why, do _you_ want children someday?”

Simon leans back in his chair and thinks for a moment. I find it hard to make eye contact with him so I trace his name on the cover of the book instead of watching his expression and getting my heart broken. 

“I’ve never really thought about it. Guess I assumed with us both being blokes it wasn’t an option.” 

I roll my eyes. I can’t control it. “Snow, you were in _care_. You were technically adopted. _We_ could adopt or seek out a surrogate. We have options.”

“Options,” Simon says softly to himself. He smiles and nods. Maybe he’s thinking about Frankie from earlier. I know I am. I find myself thinking of all the other Simons and Frankies out there alone against the world. 

Are we really having this conversation? A conversation about children? About the future? Furthermore, is Simon smiling and nodding through this conversation? 

“Might be nice,” Simon smiles. “To give a kid the normal childhood we never had.”

I lean in and gesture for Simon to do the same. 

“A childhood with two magical parents, one a vampire and the other with wings and a tail whenever he wants them?” I say in hushed tones. “I’m not sure we can promise any kid a normal childhood.” 

“Yeah, but that’s not what makes a childhood normal, is it, Baz? It’s the love and the caring and the adventures and stuff,” Simon’s eyes are bright. “Teaching a kid how to ride a bike and helping them with their maths homework and, I dunno, bandaging them up when they get hurt. That’s what makes it normal, just being there for all that. Being there is what matters.”

Being there. Everything he never had is what matters.

I think about how different our childhoods were, but ultimately the same. Lonely. Nobody to just be there for us.

I reach out for Simon’s hand and bring it gently to my lips, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles. 

“You’d make a wonderful father, Simon Snow,” I whisper to him. The corner of his mouth turns up into a funny little half smile. 

“And you’d be an utterly terrifying dad, Baz. Just...horribly intimidating,” Simon laughs. “Their teachers would all hate you, their friends would never want to come ‘round. You’d scare the shit out of everyone who so much as looked at them sideways.” 

“Quite right,” I offer, taking a sip of wine. “And they’d deserve nothing less,” we laugh. 

“I think--” Simon starts. “Baz, I think I might like that. Someday.” 

“I think I would too, Simon. Someday,” my voice catches in my throat. 

It’s dark out when we leave and Simon steers me towards a park so I can feed. He keeps lookout while I chase down a fox and drain it dry. Once we're home and settled in bed for the night I ask him to read to me from his book. He rolls his eyes, but obliges. I lean against him and fall asleep to the rumble of his voice in his chest and the reverberations of our conversation in my mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind words and comments.


End file.
